The Last Kiss: A Standalone Romance Novel (The Notting Hill Sisterhood Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

  “An accident.” I lie, but it sits uneasily on my stomach. “It’s nothing.” His midnight gaze watches me. “Are you taking this blouse off today or tomorrow?” I tease, knowing I’m setting myself up for the most pleasurable form of torture.

  I rush, he slows.

  A delicious dance. A two-step between us, unique to the way he makes me feel.

  “Are you rushing me?”

  “No!” I bite down on the inside of my cheek, fighting my smile.

  With his hand, he lifts my hair, brushing it over my shoulder, running it through his fingers as he straightens up and pushes us close together, his lips dancing at my ear. I drop my fingers to his shirt, unbuttoning one fastening after the other, smoothing my thumbs along the warm skin of his chest.

  I need to be skin on skin. I arch myself while his dark eyes watch me curve, the articulation of my body begging for more.

  He moves my blouse an inch and I growl in frustration, his answering chuckle vibrating against my neck.

  With his shirt open, I rock back and unloop his leather belt, running it through the buckle and unhooking the fastening of his suit trousers.

  Flashing the devil’s grin, I slip from his lap and come to my knees on the floor, shining a smile up at his shadowed face. Moonlight floods the room, bathing the surfaces it touches in pewter. His fingertips brush the crown of my head and I lean up, unzipping his fly and easing his trousers and boxers down with a gentle pull of his hips.

  His gaze is all hooded burning desire and power rushes through me, waking me up to the strength I have inside me. Dipping my head, I lick his length, savouring the smoothness of his skin. That ripple of power tickles down my spine as he sighs, slumping back a little, his long arm still stretched towards me, heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Juliette,” he sighs, “You have the most exquisite mouth.”

  To prove I do, I slip him in, hollowing my cheeks and flattening my tongue to encase around him. His thumb brushes my cheek and I look up to find him watching, lips parting as I lower my gaze to suck him back in again.

  The power is all mine. I’ve never been one for oral, but that might have been because it’s never made me feel like this before, like I’m queen of the world and he’s going to fall at my feet on the whim of my lips and mouth.

  I quicken, taking him deeper, flicking with my tongue, pulling a little harder until I’m roughly pulled up and away, his hands under my armpits.

  “You’re an enchantress. I can’t stop thinking about you, remembering the way it felt inside of you.” He yanks at my blouse and I squeeze my eyes shut in case a button pings off and blinds me for life.

  Thank God for good underwear.

  He mutters in deep and lyrical French as he palms the lace of my black bra, thumb lightly pinching my nipple through the delicate material as I arch my back away from him. He’s making me a ballerina, pulling a languid dance out of me I didn’t know I knew the steps to.

  Hoisting me with his upward movement, he straightens from the chair and strides for the bed. I wait for the bounce, but this time he lowers me carefully, like I’m a goddess he’s going to worship.

  And he does, loosening my heels and dropping them to the floor, muttering in appreciation as he slides a hand up my leg. “I prefer these tights” He kisses my inner thigh, and his hands slip up the outer edge of my hips. Lifting, I wriggle free, relishing the skim of his slightly rough palm on my skin as he pulls down the tights. There’s a distinct ripping sound as they come off my feet.

  “What’s the possibility of us meeting by chance twice?” I gasp as he presses a kiss to the inside of my knee.

  “Fate, Juliette, fate.”

  What I want to know is if Fate will bring us together again, because this tastes like an addiction I don’t want to recover from.

  His stubble scratches my jaw as he stretches up to kiss me. I angle my hands to cup his face, holding him still so I can stare in his eyes.

  There it is.

  Something deep, twisted, and moreish that tells me I might want this over and over and over again even though I don’t know his name.

  “Romeo’s should be naked,” I whisper in his ear using my foot to push off his trousers tangled around his ankles.

  “Juliette’s should be less demanding,” he counters pressing me back into the mattress and hiking up my skirt.

  “I have to be demanding. I might never see you again.”

  He looks up, perplexity shadowed in the circles under his eyes. The skin that I know crinkles. “Want to know my name, ma petite?” he teases in my ear and my toes point, my knickers almost pulling themselves off my body in a bid to get to where I crave to be.

  Yes, I want to know his name. His address, birthday, star sign. Yes, I might even want to know if he’d like a date next time he’s in town… a proper date where we arrange it, maybe he brings me flowers… or I him, let’s not be sexist here, and then we spend hours sparring in meaningful and enlightening conversation…

  But Julianna Brown who might have wanted those things doesn’t exist anymore. It’s a future that no longer belongs to me, with hope, brightness and optimism dusted like fairy magic.

  “Yes.” I gust with an exhalation as he dips a finger under the elastic of my knickers, slipping his touch through my desire, gaze darkening as he reads my body’s reactions. “No!” The finger pushes inside, twisting and pressing, filling me as it rubs along long unexplored sensitive spots.

  “No to this?” He pulls his hand away from between my legs and I almost cry. A frown scores his face.

  “God no. No to names. Put your hand back right now.”

  Chuckles rock his body, but he obliges, and I writhe against his touch, groaning as his thumb circles my clit, his fingers dancing and alternating: one, then two, then one. Oooh one again to make me gasp as it encroaches further.

  Let there be no mistake. I am going to come.

  I hold on hard and fast, my hips moving with the strength of his arm and hand. The wave builds in my toes, racing up my legs with the bursting velocity of a dam that’s been breached.

  “Come, Juliette.” I know he’s watching me fall apart, the moonlight illuminating every emotion on my face. I know it, but I can’t let the knowledge change anything about it.

  I shudder hard, clenching around his fingers while his lips, which should feel foreign but instead seem like something else, catch my gasped moan.

  “God, that feels good.” I capture his face, hungrily kissing his lips.

  “Every part of you feels good.” He shrugs out of his shirt, thrusting it to one side as he cages me in his arms, holding his weight from me as he settles between my legs.

  “How good?” I smile up, trying to stop the wide grin that wants to escape.

  “Better than my English will ever allow me to express.”

  “Tell me in French then.” I wiggle down, trying to connect us, but he holds firm.

  “I will, hold that thought.” Pecking a quick kiss to the end of my nose he eases away and stretches from the bed, long lithe body flexing in pewter and pale gold. Streetlamp and moonlight.

  My French lover under a London starlit sky.

  I giggle as, with condom in hand, he stalks towards the bed. “Do you speak French, Juliette?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

  “Non.” I snort a laugh that he pounces on with a kiss.

  “Just as well, ma petite, I’m about to turn the air blue.”

  And with that he pushes deep inside me and I’m pretty sure heaven has just landed on earth.

  12

  Valentines for those with an Actual Broken Heart

  “Tell me about your home.”

  “Hmm?” He plants a sleepy kiss on the top of my head as I sprawl across his chest. Last time I stole into the dawn, untangling myself from the warm knot of his legs and arms. Tonight, my legs wouldn’t move me if I wanted them to—I’m not even sure they are still attached to my body.

  I point my toes and stretch, just to make s
ure, not at all disappointed when his hand runs up my thigh.

  “Your home. What’s it like?” I lift my head a little and rest my chin on my fingers. “I mean if you had got on the train and were nearly home by now.”

  He chuckles, rocking us together. “I wouldn’t have been home yet. First would have been the Eurostar, then a short flight from Paris, and then a taxi ride.”

  “Wow. Can’t you fly direct from London?”

  “Of course, but I have contacts in Paris too, so I’d normally stop to see them, check everything is okay.”

  Mmm… cheese intrigues.

  “And who is your contact in London?” And why does it sound like we are talking about the Mafia and not cheese production?

  “Harrods.”

  I laugh, but then when he doesn’t laugh back it quickly dies and I push up a little straighter. “Harrods. You sell your cheese at Harrods?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle. As well as direct to some restaurants in the country.”

  “What restaurants?” I narrow my gaze a bit.

  He shrugs, which let’s be honest isn’t an answer at all.

  Okay, he can keep his cheese secrets. I’ve got enough of my own. “So, what would happen when you get home.” I’m about to lay back down, my cheek needs to be pressed against one of his firm and vast pecs, but I have a thought that perhaps I should have asked before dinner, maybe even a month ago. “No girlfriend waiting for you is there?” Wincing, I try to avoid eye contact. First the no names, then the belated relationship status update. I’m not entirely sure why he shouted out to me across Waterloo. I’m clearly a woman of loose morals.

  Oh, I know why. We’ve just had mind blowing sex twice, and I’m pretty sure we are an exact, surprising, but undeniably perfect fit.

  He tilts my chin up, so I have to look at his honest and disarming smile. “No girlfriend.”

  “Phew. I’d have had to send her some apology chocolates or something.”

  “I told you at dinner, I’m a chivalrous man.”

  “Where you had your tongue earlier isn’t thought of as chivalrous in numerous countries.”

  He laughs, bellowing it at the ceiling and shakes his head. “Where have you come from, amant croisé étoile.”

  I shift under his gaze. “What did you call me?”

  Using his strong hands, he grasps me under my arms and lifts me, so we are nose to nose, my short legs knocking somewhere around his naked knees. “My star-crossed lover.”

  In response my stomach sinks. I’m a doomed lover.

  Which is why it’s perfect I’ve found someone like him to have sex with, twice. Okay, twice tonight. I won’t have to worry about hurting anyone when this ends.

  Maybe we did meet in that bar for a reason after all.

  “So, no girlfriend.” I settle back down, stroking my fingers along the valleys and hills of his chest and stomach. The man is built.

  “Non, I’d go home and check on Maman.”

  “Maman?”

  “My mother.”

  A Mummy’s boy. How endearing.

  “My father passed away eight months ago. She gets lonely.”

  I reach up again so I can see him. “I’m so sorry, for you and for her. Was it sudden?”

  He nods. “A heart attack. I thought at the time it would be better, no? No lingering goodbyes to break her heart. But it broke anyway.” He offers me a fleeting smile and then leans down to kiss me on the lips.

  “That’s awful.” A tight band weaves its way around my chest.

  “So now I take over.” He sighs, staring at the ceiling.

  “And you don’t want to?”

  A shrug. Which I’m learning can mean anything, everything, and nothing all at once. “It is what it is.”

  It is what it is. That sounds like a motto for life if you ask me.

  His smile grows, that dimple coming back out to play. “And you? I don’t need to worry some jealous boyfriend will track me down?”

  “Nah. I doubt he will go all the way to the Pyrenees to find you.” I manage to stay serious for a whole two seconds before he grabs me, fingers wedging in my ribs and rolls me over, his knee pressing between my thighs and making me all warm—again.

  “So funny, ma petite?”

  “I try.”

  “Let me show you how incredibly serious I can be.” His gaze intensifies, the glow from the bedside lamp casting half of his face into shadow.

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  I squeal as he rolls me again, catching one of my nipples in between his lips. Okay. I can take Romeo’s serious any day of the week.

  Dawn is starting to filter through the edges of the thick brocade curtains, I’m still spiralled across my Two-Night One-Night Stand like a cheap sweater on the floor of Primark.

  My stomach has been rumbling for at least an hour, waking me up from my light sleep. I’ve been dreaming of the Tube ride home in my work clothes sans tights.

  Another walk of shame.

  If I left now, I wouldn’t have to face the morning rush.

  I haven’t even got a hairbrush, let alone a toothbrush.

  Oh God. I’m going to have morning breath.

  I should leave.

  Definitely leave now.

  “I know what you are thinking.” His finger trails down my spine.

  “You do?”

  “You’re planning an escape.”

  “Wasn’t. I was considering my lack of toothbrush.”

  “Easily rectified. Reception will send one.”

  Well, I suppose… “My tights are in tatters on the floor.”

  “Your skin is beautiful and shouldn’t be hidden from view.”

  I peek up through my mess of dark hair and catch a sleepy smile flit across his face.

  “My…” Goddamn it. Where have all my reasons gone?

  “It’s Valentine’s. I need to book another train; we could have breakfast.”

  “I need to feed my cat.”

  He cranks an eye open. “I need to meet this cat.”

  My cheeks flush. “I think that would be in breach of the no name rule.”

  He inclines his head and I tighten my embrace of his chest, inhaling the warmth of his skin. “This hotel is beautiful. Do you always stay here?” The room is a classy old-fashioned affair: heavy dark-stained furniture, opulent furnishings. On the opposite wall is a large gilt-framed mirror on which I will always see, captured in a snapshot in my memories, the sight of our limbs entwined, fingers clawing skin.

  “Oui, my father did too. Maman and he came here as part of their honeymoon.”

  “Ah, that’s romantic.”

  And he was lying with me in one of their beds… shut the thought down, Julia, it won’t get you anywhere.

  “I thought the French hated the English.”

  His sleepy smile quirks into a grin and on a whim I press my lips to the dimple on the left curve of his mouth. “Only for rugby.”

  “That’s not too bad.”

  “And football.” He presses a lazy kiss onto my forehead. “And Hundred Year wars.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oil, maybe fishing rights across the channel.” He chuckles, wrapping me in strong warm arms. “Weekenders who never learn the language.”

  “Okay, let’s stop now. I’m beginning to feel vilified.”

  His face is earnest, a mask of brooding sincerity. “Non, never you. You are worshipped.”

  I begin to flow from the inside out. My skin painted gold as I bask under his words of praise. To be worshipped is a wonderful thing. Even if it’s by someone whose name I will never know.

  “So… breakfast…” I can do breakfast with him, even with unbrushed hair and tightless legs in February. It would be worth the goosebumps to bask under his golden glow for a couple more hours.

  He snatches me forward, pressing my tits against his chest. Warmth licks along my skin. “Breakfast later,” he murmurs against my mouth. I ignore the rumbling of my stomach and decide ki
sses should be made a national food source; very low in calories and great for the hips.

  A phone rings, shattering the building heat and he curses in French, dropping his face into the crook of my neck. I run my fingers through his silky, dark waves.

  “Shouldn’t you get that?” I ask as he does a steadfast job of ignoring the piercing ring and recommences the torture of my nipple with his tongue. I say torture in a loose context kind of way.

  Torture because nipple play is definitely one of his strengths and it makes me ache in other deeper places.

  “I really, really don’t want to.”

  I stare at the ceiling over the top of his head as the phone rings off and then starts again. It’s extinguishing little fires all over the place.

  “Damn it to hell.” He pushes away from my pliant body and I snatch up the sheet as cool air brushes along my sensitive skin. Grabbing his phone, he swipes the screen and then launches into a barrage of ferocious French, every word the angry strike on an old-fashioned typewriter.

  He stands, butt naked. Arse like a fucking peach. Long legs flexing, he has muscles in his back I want to photograph and frame on my wall.

  Really wish I’d paid more attention in French because I don’t understand a word he is saying, apart from the fact he is rather cross about something.

  Hanging up, even my limited French telling me he didn’t say goodbye, he throws the phone onto the chair we sat on last night and then sits down on the end of the bed, clutching his head in his hands and dropping over his knees.

  “What’s wrong?” I have a yearning ache to know his real name so I can provide some comfort from the torrent of anger he has coursing through him. As it is I lift onto my knees, dragging the sheet with me as an elaborate robe. I put my hands on his curved shoulders and plant a kiss to the warm spot where neck meets shoulder.

  I wait, the flicker of strong muscles running under my touch until he turns, an enigmatic smile drifting across his face.

  “Nothing, ma petite. Unfortunately, I have to cancel breakfast.”